s he stood hesitating. The dead
man was only a Mexican, a servant, but he had been faithful, had proven
himself an honest soul; and he had died in his service, as his
substitute. All right, the affair was not going to end now; this was
war, and, while he might not know who had fired the fatal shot, he
already felt abundantly satisfied as to who had suggested its efficacy.
There was only one outfit to be benefited by his being put out of the
way--Bill Lacy's gang. If they already had Fred Cavendish killed, or
held prisoner in their power, it would greatly simplify matters if he
should meet death accidentally, or at the hands of parties unknown.
Why not? Did he not stand alone between them and fortune? Once his
lips were sealed, who else could combat their claims? No one; not a
human being knew his secret--except the little he had confided that
afternoon to Stella Donovan.

The thought of the girl served to break his reflections. This was all
a part of that tragedy in New York. Both were in some way connected
together, the assassination in the Waldron apartments, and the shooting
of Jose here in this mountain shack. They seemed far apart, yet they
were but steps in the same scheme.

He could not figure it all out, yet no doubt this was true--the
struggle for the Cavendish millions had come to include the gold he had
discovered here in the hills. Bill Lacy was merely the agent of those
others, of Ned Beaton, of Celeste La Rue, of Patrick Enright. Aye,
that was it--Enright! Instinctively, from the very first moment when
he had listened to the girl's story, his mind had settled on Enright as
the real leader. The lawyer's arrival in Haskell with the La Rue woman
only served to strengthen that conviction. For certainly a man playing
for potential stakes as big as those Enright was gaming for, would
intrust no cunning moves to a mere Broadway chorus-girl. No, Enright
was on the ground in person because the matter in prospect needed a
director, an excessively shrewd trickster, and the others were with him
to do his bidding. If Cavendish really lived, all their plans depended
on his being kept out of sight, disposed of, at least until they had
the money safe in their grasp.

He reached beneath the blanket and drew forth the dead Mexican's
revolver, slipped the weapon into his own belt, opened the door and
went out, closing it tightly behind him. Jose could lie there until
morning. While the darkness lasted he